Dead Week, Part Two
by owlcroft
Summary: The final instalment of Hardcastle and McCormick Virtual Season Four. Thank you all for reading and if you search for Hardcastle McCormick Virtual Season, you'll find the entire batch of episodes by our fine writers. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

Dead Week, Part II

by

The Gull's Way Collective

The ride to the police station was a disturbingly familiar one for McCormick. He should be grateful, he thought, that he wasn't making the trip in the backseat of a squad car. This was far more civilized, sitting in the front, alongside Frank in his unmarked fleet car, like a couple of old friends on an ordinary errand—which they were: friends—even if the errand was far from ordinary.

And he'd noticed that Frank hadn't even read him his rights yet, though that meant little, since he also hadn't asked any questions. It had been a quiet trip so far. Mark supposed this awkward interval was one of the reasons the judge had bowed out on accompanying him. His main excuse had been his intention to look into the earlier accusations.

McCormick was past protesting that he preferred to handle things himself, in fact he sorely wished he had legal council right now. It was a fine thing to be told by your presumptive lawyer to, "Just stick to the facts, will ya?" and another entirely to do it when your questioners might know more of the facts than you did.

He sighed, drawing a quick glance from Frank, who said, "It's just questioning. It's not like you've never been through it before."

"Yeah." Mark gazed out the window, south over the Pacific, then finally back at Frank. "You know, I thought it'd be different."

"Huh?"

Mark shrugged slightly. "Everything. Or at least some stuff . . . after my parole, I mean. I thought things would settle down. I'd go to law school, maybe make something of myself. Things'd be _normal_."

"It is different."

Mark nodded in concession. "Thanks for letting me ride in front."

Frank shot him another look. "Questioning. You're a potential witness. We question witnesses."

"Hardcastle is a witness, too."

"Yeah, a hostile one," Frank snorted. "And don't worry. He can spot a fishing expedition when he sees one, otherwise he'd be backseat driving right now. The ADA and a couple of detectives are just gonna poke around a little. You'll make a few smart remarks. You do have some notion about how that disk got in your bag, don't you?"

"Nothing that'll stand up in a court of law."

"Well, lucky for you it's 'innocent until proven guilty.'"

"That only works for citizens," Mark said glumly, "not ex-cons."

 **00000**

"Such a simple matter. You said you were certain. And now this unholy mess." Dean Thomas clutched the receiver with more intensity than it required. His voice was purposefully low, though equally intense. " _Two_ people are dead—and the police are involved. I hold you responsible. Have you no control over your students? None of this is going to make our benefactors any happier."

The placations from the other end of the line didn't suit him any more than the man's earlier reassurances had.

"I've got Judge Hardcastle coming for a nine o'clock," he snapped in response. "The man refuses to be put off. No—it's better that I see him. I'll handle it. You . . . _you_ try not to say anything that we'll both regret." Thomas barely waited for the other man's response. He wouldn't trust it anyway.

As it was, he'd barely gotten the receiver back in the cradle, before his secretary buzzed him, her soothing, hushed tones coming through the intercom. " _Sorry to disturb you, Dean. Mr. Hardcastle is here and he wants me to remind you it's after nine._ "

"Send him in," Thomas said, trying to keep his tone pleasantly businesslike.

The door opened a moment later and Judge Hardcastle strode through, planting himself firmly in front of the dean's desk, his brows lowered and his attitude apparent.

"You know they've taken McCormick downtown for questioning." It was a statement, not question. Dean Thomas didn't deign to nod before Hardcastle plowed on.

"I'm an alumnus of this university and a member of the bar—not to mention there's a good chance I'm going to end up on Mr. McCormick's defense team, if it comes to that. All of which means I have standing to ask you about those original charges."

The dean neither agreed nor dissented, only cocking his head just slightly, in a position that might have expressed doubt.

Hardcastle ignored the gesture, fastening his famous glare on the man's face. "I want to know exactly how this was handled. McCormick's prints weren't on that diskette and another student's were, I know that much." He clamped his mouth tightly shut and waited, impatiently, for a response.

Dean Thomas said calmly, "Mr. McCormick probably knows a great deal more about forensics than the average law student. In any event, the diskette containing the exam was found in his possession. You can't dispute that." He eyed his paperweight, gilt-covered scales of justice in miniature, and added, "It doesn't matter what the police intend to do, there will be a disciplinary hearing. As to how the charges have been handled, that will all be under the purview of that committee."

The judge kept his stare fixed on the dean. "A hearing—when?"

"With the end of term at hand, and finals next week, Mr. McCormick has already asked for the matter to be dealt with as soon as possible. I see no reason not to comply with his request. I'm scheduling it for tomorrow."

"He'll need counsel."

"It's not considered necessary. This is not ordinarily an adversarial procedure."

"The hell it isn't," Hardcastle growled.

"We merely seek the truth."

"There's _nothing_ 'ordinary' about these proceedings," Hardcastle said. "In fact, I say this professor of yours has had it in for McCormick from the start." He frowned and then added, "Counsel's not prohibited, is it?"

"No," Thomas said reluctantly.

Hardcastle gave that a single sharp nod. "Tomorrow, then. When and where?"

The dean cast a casual glance down at his appointment book. "Ten a.m., in room 107, this building."

"A list of witnesses—"

" _Not_ adversarial. Anyone who feels they have an interest, or can make a contribution to the facts, is welcome to attend."

"Ten a.m., here." Hardcastle gave him one last squinting look. "See you tomorrow."

Then he turned and stalked out, leaving Dean Thomas scowling at his back.

 **00000**

"Milt, what brings you here?" Mattie Groves held out her hand to Hardcastle. "You never come to see me at the courthouse these days."

A worried look crossed Hardcastle's face as he took a seat by her desk. It was almost immediately reflected on Mattie's expression.

"Oh, no. It's Mark, isn't it?" She dropped into her own chair and leaned forward. "Something's wrong?"

"Nah, nah." He waved it away. "Not like that, the way you think. He's fine."

"What's _wrong_?" Mattie said more insistently.

Hardcastle drew a hand across his face wearily, regarding his friend in silence for a moment.

"He needs legal representation," he said bluntly, "at the university. He's been accused of stealing a computer diskette with a final exam on it."

"Mark?" Her tone was incredulous. "You've got to be kidding!"

"Nope. Wish I was." He even sounded tired. "He's gonna need somebody to defend him at the university hearing tomorrow. We'd have more time if exams weren't so close. I know it's short notice, Mattie, but would you do it?"

"I'm a judge, Milt. You know better than anybody—I can't act as a defense attorney."

"It's strictly a 'non-adversarial hearing'. Their words. And that's except for the part where they kick his butt out of school if they don't like the facts they come up with."

Mattie let loose a low whistle—it would have been unexpected, to anyone who hadn't witnessed her response to the unveiling of a royal flush at the poker table. "High stakes, huh?" She was checking her schedule even as she spoke. "I can switch things around here and have pretty much the whole day tomorrow open. But, Milt," she narrowed her eyes at him. "Why aren't you defending him?"

The judge eyed her cagily. "Well, I mighta poked a stick in the hornet's nest this morning—though the way I see it, things were already pretty stirred up."

Mattie was giving him the kind of look that defendants dreaded.

Even Hardcastle wasn't immune. He finally shrugged. "Okay, I gave the dean a piece of my mind. The whole thing stinks to high heaven. First a girl comes on to him in the library—"

"Well, I might be able to understand that."

"Wait," Hardcastle held up a hand. "The next morning a professor calls him down, right in front of the whole class. Asks to look through his briefcase—bingo—there's the diskette the guy just told everyone he was missing."

"And his nexus for singling Mark out was—?"

"Opportunity. He'd had McCormick on the carpet in his office the day before, accusing him of cheating on some quiz."

Mattie's eyebrows rose.

" _That_ was disproved by another student's eyewitness report," Hardcastle assured her hurriedly.

"But," Mattie said, "by virtue of being falsely accused the first time, he had a chance to steal the diskette from the professor's office?" She whistled again. "We've got some kind of dramatic irony _there_. Any other evidence?"

"None. The girl—the one who was trying to snuggle up to McCormick in the library—her prints are on the disk. McCormick's obviously aren't."

Mattie frowned in puzzlement. "So what's the problem? The case is circumstantial at best. The physical evidence points to this girl—"

"Who's dead. Murdered, the night before last."

" _Ahh_."

"McCormick was with me all evening."

"I hadn't actually asked that question, Milt."

"Well, you should. McCormick's with the cops right now, being questioned."

Mattie's jaw dropped—just slightly, and just for a moment. Then she snapped it shut and said, "Then what the hell are we doing here?"

 **00000**

In addition to Frank, there were two detectives and an assistant district attorney crowded in with McCormick in the interrogation room. Lieutenant Harper was mostly present in an observational capacity, and things were not going well. They hadn't been going well for quite some time now.

After trying all of the standard techniques for initiating a productive conversation with a suspect, ADA Kohler had finally snapped.

"If you wanted your lawyer, why the hell didn't you bring Hardcastle along?"

"Who says he's my lawyer?" McCormick gave him a disgruntled look. "Maybe I can't afford a lawyer. Maybe I need one appointed for me—hmm?"

"Okay, fine, get him a P.D." The ADA threw up his hands in disgust and impatience.

A knock came at the door and then it opened. The desk sergeant peered in and said, "I got somebody here to see McCormick."

The ADA scowled. " _Hah_. Hardcase, huh? Well, maybe we can finally get—"

"It's me, Roland," Judge Grove's crisp, no-nonsense voice cut him off. "And you need to mind your manners." She stepped in and gave the room's occupants a quick, surveying glance. "What are the charges?"

Harper smiled grimly and cleared his throat. "Theft, so far. The value of the stolen goods seems to be a matter of opinion."

Mattie nodded her thanks to him and then glanced at the district attorney.

"Since you wisely haven't taken this past the exploratory stage, and the crime in question is most likely a misdemeanor, I'd advise you let the university handle it." She turned her head to include the police detectives in her remarks. "If Mr. McCormick is found liable for the theft, you'll be able to take the matter up again. If he's innocent, you won't have wasted a spot on some overworked judge's docket."

She frowned at McCormick—a simple, no-nonsense, all-purpose frown, as though she were trying to lend some weight to her next remark. "If they don't take my advice, and maybe even if they do, you'll need a lawyer." She cocked her head and added, "As a judge, I'm not eligible, but I'd recommend that you refuse to discuss the matter further at this point and—in light of the minor nature of the charge—demand recognizance bond."

"I'll just leave you gentlemen to sort things out." She graced the room with her best judicial smile as she pivoted toward the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Judge Groves and McCormick sat in a pleasant coffee shop near the police station. Mattie's arrival had been acknowledged by polite nods from a couple of the patrons, but she and Mark were otherwise left in peace once coffee had been provided. For a while, though, it looked as if Mark was taken her advice to heart and had no intention of discussing the matter any further.

"I'm going to represent you at the disciplinary hearing," Mattie said quietly.

He looked up sharply from his coffee.

"I thought it was some kind of conflict—you're a judge."

"This is a university disciplinary hearing, not a court of law. I'm a free agent." She didn't get much reaction to that. Mark seemed to sink back into some dark thought, studying his coffee.

"Hey," she finally said, "it's me, Mattie the Inside Straight, remember? I never saw a long shot I didn't like—and this isn't even a long shot. You can take that to the bank."

That got a small chuckle from McCormick, though he sobered almost immediately.

"Listen," she went on, doggedly cheerful, "Bummy Bumgarner wants to know if there's anything he can do. I even heard a couple of cops down at that station saying the whole thing must be a frame-up. You're not alone in this." She stopped, still gazing at him, then sighed and took a sip of her coffee.

McCormick finally noticed the silence and glanced up. "Ah, _thanks_. That's nice to hear." His smile was tentative and didn't seem to come easily. "And I'm glad you're representing me, but . . ."

Mattie leaned over the table toward him. "' _But_ '?"

"I think Hardcastle is starting to be sorry about the alibi he gave me," he said quietly. "It was almost a lie, you know. Maybe he wants to put a little distance between us—between him and me, I mean."

"That's ridiculous," said Mattie impatiently. "You're in a funk. Your judgment's messed up. He's out there right now, digging into this thing, and he wouldn't have given you that alibi if he hadn't believed in it, foursquare." She reached out to nudge him, recapturing his attention. "And, hey, did you ever consider that maybe he's thinking you're better off with _him_ at a little distance? At least as long as he's over there at the university, rattling cages."

She sighed and looked grave, pulling out a note book and opening it to a page on which she'd already scribbled a few notes.

"Anyway, we're going to start at the beginning, the theft. Come on, Dimples, work with me here. Clearly Audra had her mitts on that diskette. You think she must've slipped it into your briefcase the evening before?"

Mark straightened a little, took a slug of coffee, and gazed at her intently. "Yeah, I was working in the campus library and she was there, with that guy Powers, the one who'd been caught cheating. They were a few tables over from me, and then she came over to where I was sitting and started talking."

"Had she done that before?" Mattie waved a hand. "I mean, was she in the habit of chatting you up whenever she saw you?"

Mark said nothing. He was staring fixedly.

"What?" she said, trying to get his attention again.

"Oh—I just thought—Powers had the appointment right after mine that evening, in Hawksworth's office. He must've just gotten told he'd been caught. Hawksworth made it sound to me like the guy was going to be suspended at least.

"Makes sense."

"So, what's he doing heading straight to the library after news like that? Hell, I don't think he even went there on _good_ days. So he went there just to pass the thing to her, and have her plant it on me."

Mattie considered that for a moment, then nodded again. "Okay, but is this line of questioning leading us anywhere?"

Mark sat up a straighter still. "Think about it—he's gonna do this thing in one of the most public places on campus, on one of the most crowded nights of the year. This had to be an impulse—he did it on the fly. I think he'd just gotten his hands on it. So who stole the earlier copy? And why did he suddenly decide to plant it on me?" He paused, and then frowned. "I mean besides that I make such an all-around good _suspect_."

"These are all interesting speculations," Maggie said, "but can we just nail the hand-off? This Audra person was right there, next to your briefcase?" At his nod, Mattie pressed the issue. "Was she touching it? Could she have touched it, even opened it and slipped the diskette in without you seeing her do it?"

Mark nodded, thoughtfully. "Yeah, sure she could. It was sitting on the table between us. I couldn't see her other hand." He knitted his brows in memory . "I guess I wasn't really paying all that much attention anyway."

"She was distracting, huh?" Mattie said with a quirk of a smile as she glanced down at her notebook. "I think that'll do for opportunity. Do you remember anyone else who was there? You said the place was crowded. Anyone who might remember you and Audra or even this guy Powers?"

Mark thought about that one for a moment, narrowing his eyes in concentration.

"Um, yeah. Amy . . . Amy London, and couple of others. People tend to sit at the same tables most of the time. Habits, you know?" He looked a bit more hopeful.

Mattie smiled and passed her notebook and a pen across to him. "Write the names down for me." She eased back in her seat, looking thoughtful as he wrote. "Now— motive. Tell me more about Mr. Powers and the meetings the day before yesterday."

 **00000**

Hardcastle strode into Hawksworth's office, taking a seat across from the professor's desk without waiting for an invitation.

"I need to get a couple things straight about these charges you've leveled at Mark McCormick," he said brusquely.

"No politeness, no pretense at cordiality? Civility is a lost art," murmured Hawksworth. "Very well, we will dispense with it. What do you want to know?"

"Why did you single him out as the culprit?"

"Because he'd been in my office that morning."

The judge visibly calmed himself and asked, in a cooler tone, "At your request—at a time appointed by you and with you present?"

"Of course—naturally."

"So you assumed he'd stolen the diskette during that visit?" Hardcastle added a note of doubt to the inquiry, not waiting for an answer before firing off a barrage of additional questions: "Had you shown it to him? Was it labeled, left out in the open? Was he the only person who visited that day?"

"Obviously not," Hawksworth said with the beginnings of irritation. "I can't remember every visitor." In a supercilious tone he added, "Perhaps you would care to subpoena my secretary's appointment book."

"I think that might be necessary, the way this is going," Hardcastle snapped. Then he changed tacks, pouncing on the professor's earlier answer. "So if he wasn't the only person who came in here, why did you suspect _him_?" He fixed the man with a glower.

Hawksworth drew himself up. The expression on his face suggested that the answer to that was obvious, but, even so, he had too much sense to suggest it to his interrogator. Instead, resuming an aggravatingly calm and superior tone he said, "I hardly think I need to answer all these questions. I'm not the one on trial here. The material fact is that I appear to have been correct in my suspicions regarding Mr. McCormick." The professor stood, nodded toward the door and uttered an icy, "Good-day, Judge Hardcastle.

"Yeah, I've heard all I need to for now. I'll see you tomorrow," said the judge with an insouciant wave.

Hawksworth scowled at his departing guest, and sat down heavily as soon as he'd departed. He reached across the desk for his phone, and dialed a number.

"Yes," he said to the professionally pleasant female voice who asked if she might help him, "Please tell Winston that Professor Hawksworth would like to speak with him."

He sensed the secretary's momentary disconcertion at hearing her employer's first name used by someone who wasn't on a very short list. "I'm an old professor of his—law school," he added casually.

The connection took a moment—evidence that events were being watched from afar. His former pupil sounded not at all pleased when he came on the line.

"I know you're the ones who leaned on Dean Thomas," Hawksworth said, with an air of certainty. "He's weak, you know. He bends to everyone the way he bent to you. Now he's unhappy because I did what needed to be done to take care of the matter. No," he sighed, "don't interrupt. I'm not a patient man. Surely you remember that?"

The man on the other end of the line had fallen silent. Half the battle had been won.

"Now, you listen to me. This has to be settled, and quickly. You've probably already heard that there'll be a disciplinary hearing tomorrow morning at ten. Mr. McCormick, it seems, is not without resources. I've already been accosted by Judge Hardcastle. He intends to raise questions you don't want answered."

His former pupil still said nothing.

Hawksworth smiled and drove the argument home. "It's simple, really. If the accused fails to appear at the hearing, he forfeits his right to argue his case. The ruling goes against him. It would be best for everyone if Mr. McCormick didn't show up."

 **00000**

Leaving the building, Hardcastle walked past a small coterie of students in a close conversational huddle on the steps. One, a petite blonde, looked up. She hesitated a moment and then started toward him, saying, "Judge Hardcastle?"

He halted and looked back at her with a questioning expression. "Yeah, that's me. You're—?"

"Amy London. I'm a classmate of Mark McCormick's." She glanced around nervously, biting her lip.

Hardcastle nodded. "Oh—yeah, he's mentioned you." He raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

She leaned in slightly and said, in little more than a whisper, "Can we talk?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The judge and Ms. London faced each other over a small plastic table in the nearest coffee shop.

"So you know that Professor Hawksworth accused Mark of cheating, then?"

At the judge's nod, she went on. "Well, I spoke to him, to Hawksworth, and told him there was no way Mark could've copied from Randy's paper because Randy was sitting _behind_ Mark. It had to have been Randy who'd copied from Mark."

Hardcastle nodded again. "Seems like Hawskworth must've believed you—it all got dropped pretty much right away."

"Uh-huh. The professor told me he'd handle it and that Mark was in the clear. And you know that floppy that was in Mark's briefcase? I might have an idea about that, too. See," she leaned forward over the table and spoke in a lower tone, "I was talking to some of the other students, right after class – I was pretty upset about it. I told them I didn't think Mark had stolen the exam. What sense did it make? He's the guy setting the _curve_ in that class. Audra was there. She said some stuff about being sorry it had happened." She frowned, as if recollecting her exact impression. "It could have been just sympathy, but there was something in the way she said it. So I asked her what she meant and she backed off. Got all nervous and said she didn't mean anything." She gave Hardcastle a knowing look. " _Real_ nervous."

Hardcastle tilted his head and hmm'ed. "Sound to you like she maybe was the one who did the actual dirty work?"

"Yeah." She cocked her head. "And you know none of us had heard _anything_ about the exam being for sale so how did Professor Hawksworth know about it?"

She finally tasted her coffee, found it not worth bothering about and shoved it to one side. "Some of us are worried about Mark and what happened to him, not to mention knowing that any of us could get the same treatment. Somebody could take a dislike to us and frame us the same way. 'Disciplinary hearing'— _hah_ , it's a kangaroo court. A few of the others," she hesitated for just a second, "they think Mark's different. You know, because he's an ex-con and they're not. But the rest of us get it – he's not different at all. He's one of us and he's innocent until proven guilty!"

Hardcastle smiled at her. "I'm glad you're on our side. You're gonna make a helluva defense attorney someday, kid."

Amy smiled back, but shook her head. "I'm going into tax law."

"You change your mind, you let me know." The judge pushed his own coffee aside. "I could get you a summer job at one of the smaller shops—you can get a lot of hands-on experience at one of those places. It'd be a shame to waste the bulldog in you."

She dimpled at him and slanted her head. "I'll think about it. I really liked accounting as an undergrad, but torts has been kinda fun."

Hardcastle groaned and said, "You're one of a kind. Still, it's a waste."

Amy shrugged. "I've still got time to decide." Her smile faded just as quickly as it had appeared. "Too bad Audra didn't." She edged forward in her seat again. "But there is someone else you ought to talk to—Valerie Nagel. They were pretty close. If Audra told anyone anything, I think it would have been her. I asked Val—but she wouldn't say anything. She's nervous. We all are."

 **00000**

It was late afternoon by the time Mattie dropped Mark off back at Gull's Way. He thanked her for the ride and waited patiently for her to take her cue, say _de nada_ , and leave him to mull things over in peace. Instead, the car didn't budge as she studied him with what appeared to be her usual degree of perception.

She finally said, "I thought I had you cheered up a little."

He shrugged. He couldn't deny it; for a moment or two, back in that coffee shop, as he'd been thinking through the chain of events, pondering motive, method, and opportunity, he'd been almost completely distracted. He thought it might be an indicator of how well Hardcastle had him trained—see a problem, fix a problem. But that didn't address the reality: that most people saw _him_ as the problem—automatically, _reflexively_.

"Maybe it's law school," he said dourly.

Mattie looked startled, though she seemed to get what he meant and almost immediately lodged a protest. "But you're good at it. I'd say you're a natural if I didn't know from Milt how damn hard you're working—"

"No," Mark waved her defense aside, "it's not about that—if I'm good enough _at_ it or not. I might be." He frowned. "Hardcastle thinks I am."

Mattie gave that a decisive nod. "Damn straight."

Mark smiled at the motion—seconded and carried pretty much unanimously by his small but dedicated support team, and then almost at once his smile faltered. His effort and abilities didn't change the big picture.

"It's not really about me. Or maybe it is, in a way," he said quietly. "It's about whether they can accept me."

"'They'?"

" _Them_ —professors, students, future colleagues, clients, judges. Law is what happens when people get together and decide what's right and what's wrong—"

"And you think they've labeled you as part of the wrong, and that's that?"

"Seems that way sometimes. I guess I thought I'd put it all behind me once my parole was up. Start fresh, a clean slate." He quirked an out-of-place smile. "You know this has been a really strange year."

"Stranger than it would have been if you _hadn't_ started law school?"

He cocked his head. Leave it to Mattie to come up with a question that hadn't occurred to him.

"No, probably not," he finally conceded. "I thought about trying to get back into racing once or twice. Heck, I even put out some feelers to a few old buddies; that's what got me that gig in Arizona last year." His smile went a little thin at the memory of that disaster. He sighed. "A couple people said they'd keep me in mind, but sponsors—they don't want a driver with too much history. Hell, even getting a job as a mechanic . . ." He shook his head. The smile was back. "And I'd only worked two half-shifts at 'Hardcastle's Repo and Repair' before I needed to make bail."

"See," Mattie said encouragingly, "things could always be worse. Here you are, out on your own recognizance without even needing to post bond."

"Yet."

She reached up, through the open car window, and patted him on the arm. "Don't worry; we'll get you through that hearing tomorrow, and back to studying for your exams."

"Tomorrow . . . yeah. But maybe after that—"

"You're thinking maybe a monastery? That'd be such a waste." She flashed him a smile and a wink, both meant to be reassuring. "Get some rest, okay?"

He tried to return the smile, if only to show he'd appreciated her efforts at cheering him up. He didn't doubt her enthusiasm for the task ahead and only wished he shared her confidence.

He waited until the tail lights of her sedan disappeared around the curve of the drive, with a slow count to a hundred after that. Then he sighed and turned, heading for the Coyote.

 **00000**

It was twilight by the time McCormick reached his destination. Between the lull of pre-exam week, and the lateness of the hour, he easily found a parking space around the corner from the law department's office building. He hadn't called for an appointment, but Hawksworth was notorious for practically living out of his office, and it didn't surprise McCormick to see the light on in one lone window on the third floor. He took a deep breath and let it out, then pushed all doubt to the side and mounted the steps to the main doors.

The foyer was deserted and his footsteps echoed in the stairwell as he climbed the two flights. He wasn't sure what he intended to accomplish, confronting the man. There was just the increasing certainty in his mind, that Hawksworth was the lynch-pin in this whole mess: that he had lied, most likely repeatedly.

And despite Mattie's reassurances, he thought this might be his last night as a student of this university. If that was so, he wanted one last chance to confront his accuser, unencumbered by the niceties of the disciplinary hearing.

"But no matter what, don't punch his lights out," he muttered just under his breath as he passed through the outer office and rapped sharply on the door to Hawksworth's inner sanctum.

There was no immediate response, so he followed the knock by firmly announcing, "It's me, McCormick." There was still no answer but the door swung inward on the force of a second, harder knock.

The professor was in, though not available. Mark froze in the doorway, trying to make sense of the sight of Hawksworth slumped, face down, on his desktop. He obviously wasn't taking a nap. The man's color was off and his eyes, half-open, were glazed and flat.

Mark crossed to the desk and only hesitated a moment before touching the man's neck. He thought he felt a pulse. No, it was only his own, pounding in his fingertips.

There were sounds, though, voices in the hallway. He jerked back from the body nervously. The figures in the doorway had frozen, too—Hardcastle staring at him in disbelief for a moment, then shifting his gaze to Hawksworth.

"He's dead," McCormick said quietly.

There was a shriek, short but piercing. It came from a woman he recognized distractedly as a fellow-student, Valerie Nagel. She was standing just behind the judge, looking over his shoulder, wide-eyed at the scene. She turned away suddenly, retreating to the hall. Her place was taken by Amy London. Who was calm, though she, too, looked shocked.

She was silent for a long second before she said, "I know he was annoying but—"

"It's not what it looks like. I found him this way," Mark protested, mostly to Hardcastle, who waved him silent as he stepped forward.

He cast a glance back to Amy. "Don't touch anything. You and Val stay out in the hall. Call the cops from the phone out there."

Amy nodded once and departed with only a quick glance back.. Hardcastle turned back to McCormick. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I wanted to have a talk with him."

Hardcastle heaved a sigh of exasperation. "There're reasons why defendants don't make contact with witnesses. Avoiding stuff like this is right up at the head of the list."

"Well, I just got here, and there he was," he said sullenly, gesturing to the corpse. Then looked back at Hardcastle in puzzlement. "What about you? And _them_?"

"Witnesses for the defense."

"Really?" His puzzlement took on a hint of surprise. Then he looked down at the corpse again. "Not strangled, not shot. Heart attack?"

"He's been working too hard," Hardcastle observed drily. "All those machinations take it out of a guy."

"Yeah, well, _I_ thought he was gunning for me," Mark said firmly, "but I didn't think paranoia was contagious." He studied the dead man more closely, then shot another appraising glance at the judge. "'Working too hard'?"

"Yeah, look, he hasn't even shaved." The judge pointed at the slightly mottled face. "Wonder if he even made it home last night."

 **00000**

The cops arrived promptly, along with a couple of paramedics, who confirmed the obvious and got official permission from their base unit not to engage in acts of medical futility. Ms. London must have given the authorities a thorough description of what was awaiting them. The campus police were quickly followed by a contingent of the LAPD. This first collection didn't include any of the detectives who'd been working the previous two homicides, but they seemed to be up to speed on who was the person of interest in recent events. One of them took out a pair of handcuffs while another started in, droning the Miranda to McCormick.

He'd only gotten as far as the first phrase when Hardcastle barked, "Don't touch that!"

A third officer stepped back from the corpse, looking remarkably guilty.

The judge muttered in exasperation, "Don't they teach you anything about crime scenes these days? I think we all oughta step out."

The party adjourned just long enough to make it to the hallway, where Amy and Valerie stood, down by the pay phone, looking concerned. The Miranda was completed, with McCormick asked if he understood the gist of his rights. Then the handcuffs were applied.

He had only a moment to give Hardcastle a questioning look, which the judge, appearing preoccupied, waved away.

"Listen to the man," he hooked a thumb at the officer who was tucking the Miranda card back into his pocket, "nothing out of you until you have your lawyer present."

"But—"

That protest was cut off by the ushering hand of the first cop, tugging McCormick toward the stairwell and presumably out to a squad car. Hardcastle was wearing his best all-purpose "don't worry about a thing" expression, which lasted just long enough for the suspect to be escorted out.

 **00000**

Not even ten minutes had elapsed before the next wave of investigators arrived, a crime scene photographer and an evidence tech. It had been just enough time for Hardcastle to reassure his two witnesses and convince the campus cops that the young ladies needed an escort to Amy's sister's place in Bel Air.

"You stay there," he said to the more serious of the two women. "And you stay with her," he added, to Val. "That okay?"

Both nodded.

"Good. I'll let you know if it's still on for tomorrow. This might not change anything." He dismissed them with a smile and a nod, then turned and considered the door to Hawksworth's office, maneuvering so that he could keep an eye on the activities inside.

"Can't you guys stay home and watch John Wayne movies once in a while?"

Hardcastle twitched slightly. In his preoccupation, he hadn't noticed the arrival of the plainclothes officers assigned to the campus murders. Frank looked unhappy as he glanced into the office and then turned back.

"Sorry, Frank." The judge tried to look genuinely contrite. "I had some testimony I wanted the guy to hear."

Frank shook his head in disbelief. "It couldn't wait until that committee meets tomorrow?"

"It might've _prevented_ that little shindig . . . but now I'm not so sure."

"What are you saying?"

"I think the deck's been stacked against McCormick since this started, and I'm pretty sure I know who was doing the stacking."

"Who?"

"Well, I dunno if it all makes sense yet; it might not to you guys, anyway. Just do me a favor, will ya? Have the techs bag Hawksworth's hands. I'd like 'em to run a residue test on him—his jacket, too."

Frank was staring. He finally said, "He definitely didn't shoot himself."

"No, but I'm thinking with a little luck I might be able to solve two deaths for you at least."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

McCormick's second ride to the police station in one day was the traditional kind he was more familiar with—backseat, handcuffs, the works. It made sense, he supposed, for a guy already who'd already been questioned as a witness in two other deaths and had just been discovered standing over the corpse of his accuser.

It surprised him a little, though, that once he was delivered to the authorities, they didn't quite know what to do with him. He found himself sequestered in the same interrogation room that he'd spent part of the morning in, presumably waiting for the ADA and the cops to take up where they'd left off. It was about an hour before someone showed up, and that was Hardcastle, looking solemn, but not without hope.

Nearly another hour passed. The judge didn't seem to be in a mood to talk, though, or maybe he didn't think there was much to talk about. For McCormick's part, he was just circling the "what-ifs" and the "might-have-beens".

He finally said, in what must have come out as a fairly random observation, "Mattie'd dropped me off at home. I would have been there by myself. It wouldn't have been much of an alibi."

He thought about what he'd just said and then winced, thinking he'd struck pretty close to the other issue—his alibi for the first murder.

"Hah," the judge scoffed, "as bad as being found right there with the body?"

Mark didn't have to ponder that one; he already had—at great length and part of the time in handcuffs.

"No, not as bad as that."

He never had a chance to get told just how bad Hardcastle thought that it was. At that moment the door opened. Frank Harper and ADA Kohler stepped in. It didn't seem like a full quorum. McCormick glanced past them, waiting for the rest but that seemed to be it. He wondered if it was the lateness of the hour. Kohler didn't look too happy to have been called in from his home.

Frank took a seat. Kohler seemed momentarily reluctant to join them, but finally did the same. Mark cast a puzzled look at the judge, who seemed pretty serene for guy who'd provided an alibi to a suspected serial killer.

Frank pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. "This is just a preliminary report—a swipe test for nitrites, not particle imaging." He pushed it toward Hardcastle. "Positive, the sleeve of Hawksworth's jacket, and his wrist, but not his hand."

Hardcastle nodded. "Makes sense; it'd been about sixteen hours—he'd've washed his hands at some point." He reached for the paper. "He looked kinda rough around the edges, though."

"He looked _dead_ ," Kohler said grimly.

"I don't mean this evening—I'd noticed it when I saw him earlier today. I'd been chalking it up to all the plotting. But now I'm thinking he never had to get his hands this dirty before. I bet he didn't even go home last night—either it shook him up, or he didn't want to risk some neighbor seeing him coming in late."

"Because he hadn't shaved, and he still had on the same suit?" McCormick's brow was furrowed. "No, he still might've stopped off at his place. We used to joke about that jacket. It was like his uniform."

"Okay," Kohler looked irritated, like a man whose airtight assumptions had suddenly sprung a leak, "so he might've shot that Powers kid . . . but _why_?"

"You send somebody yet to interview those two students, London and Nagel?" Hardcastle asked.

Harper nodded, "I did it myself. Did you have to send them all the way up to Bel Air?"

"I wanted my client's two best witnesses out of harm's way. We still don't know what happened to Hawksworth, do we?"

"No obvious external trauma," Harper said, as though he were quoting the ME's on-scene opinion.

Hardcastle hooked a thumb at McCormick. "But just 'cause the obvious suspect didn't do it doesn't mean he wasn't murdered. And if he was, we don't know who or why—only that it might be somebody Hawksworth was working for. Someone with an interest in the outcome of the hearing."

"Wild accusations," Kohler threw his hands up, "based on idle speculation."

"I think we're running out of domesticated accusations," Hardcastle observed dryly. Then he turned back to Harper. "And those girls—"

"Valerie Nagel confirmed what you told me. She encountered Audra West the night she was killed and Ms. West seemed upset. She said someone had asked her to put a disk in Mark's briefcase without his knowledge. She also said she'd told Professor Hawksworth, and he told her he'd take care of everything."

"Hearsay." The ADA looked stubborn. "Anyway, someone still might've killed the West girl—not knowing she'd already spoken to the professor."

McCormick was so relieved to hear that the top of the suspect list was now occupied by "someone" that he almost missed the judge's retort.

"Nope, I told ya I met with Hawksworth earlier today. He didn't say a word about it then. He seemed determined to pursue the disciplinary hearing against McCormick." He looked at Harper again. "What did the lab say about Randy Powers' note?"

Harper looked smug, "Like you thought; from the pattern of the stains it looks like the paper was moved into position _after_ Powers' head hit the table—all consistent with someone else having been in the room when he was shot."

Hardcastle smiled, looking satisfied. "Go through Hawksworth's files; I'm sure you'll find stuff with Powers' handwriting—enough that Hawksworth could have duped up the note."

Kohler grimaced as though he had swallowed something hard. It was a long silent moment before he finally turned toward Harper and said, "In light of the conflicting evidence, and the ME's preliminary finding that Hawksworth had been dead for at least an hour prior to the police being summoned, I am advising no charges against Mr. McCormick at this time."

 **00000**

McCormick followed Hardcastle out of the station. He thought he ought to have been more relieved, but there was an odd, flat feeling, as though he were standing in the eye of the hurricane—just enough time to take a breath or two, and the air heavy with the expectation of more to come.

They made it out to the truck without the storm breaking. Mark even had enough time to think that maybe he'd been mistaken. They climbed into the truck, Hardcastle behind the wheel—Mark even contemplating asking to be dropped at the university: the lot near Hawksworth's building where he'd left the Coyote earlier.

 _No, don't bring that up right now._

He thought it would be better to wait until tomorrow—after all he could catch a ride in with the judge to attend his hearing. But even without the fateful reminder of his earlier trip out, the silence didn't last. As soon as the judge had backed out of the space and maneuvered onto the street, he let the question drop casually.

"So, why _did_ you go over to Hawksworth's office?"

Mark thought about lying, but he'd already decided, a long time back, that it was just a waste of effort with Hardcastle. It wasn't that he'd never be able to pull one off—he might, rarely—but the end result was more guilt and second-guessing than he was willing to put up with.

"I wanted to talk to him." That was no answer, but it gave him a moment to frame the real one.

The judge didn't even dignify that stalling tactic with another question. The first one still stood.

"Okay," Mark said quietly, "I think I was planning to tell him that I'd resign from law school."

There was a moment of silence before Hardcastle said, "But I thought you _liked_ law school . . . well, except for torts, and nobody likes torts."

"Yeah, well, I did like being there—I still do." He took a deep breath and let it out. "Just tired of all the crap, I guess. Nobody even bothers with a line-up as long as I'm around."

"Fact of life," Hardcastle said bluntly. "Live with it."

Mark turned toward him with a shocked expression.

"Better yet, learn how to fight back. And do ya think you were maybe a little hasty buying into Powers' suicide?"

Mark frowned at the shift in subject and finally said hesitantly, "Maybe . . . but it wasn't all that crazy. Law school's tough . . . and we _were_ following him around."

"That's 'cause he needed following around. Look, he was a cheater, and cheaters cheat; it's their M.O. If they get caught, they don't kill themselves, they just find another way to snooker the system." Hardcastle cast him an impatient glance before he plowed on, "I think Hawksworth killed Audra West, and Powers never thought he'd be next, just tried to figure out how he could turn a profit on it."

McCormick thought about that for a moment and then made a face and said, "Yuck . . . but as long as he didn't off himself because Tonto was on his trail, I guess I should feel better."

"Good. It's a start."

 **00000**

It really must have been a start, because, contrary to his expectations, Mark actually got some sleep that night. It helped that Hardcastle _had_ dropped him off on their way home, so he could retrieve the Coyote, and all without any more clucks and tsks about his earlier trip to Hawksworth's office.

The next morning, though, Mark didn't feel up to heading over to the main house for his usual breakfast with the judge, feeling queasy enough without adding bacon and eggs to the mix. But he was up—clean and pressed and wearing one of his soberest suit coats. He was adjusting his tie for the umpteenth time when he heard a sharp double-rap on the gatehouse door.

It was Hardcastle's standard method of announcing that he was coming in and, true to form, the man entered almost immediately. He eyed McCormick judiciously and apparently found everything ship-shape.

"You gonna fiddle with that thing all day?" He pointed at the tie. "Time's a-wasting."

"Can't help it—feels like a noose. Why the hell do they need to have this hearing if you've already proven Hawksworth was behind everything?"

Hardcastle didn't state the obvious—that he hadn't actually proven anything yet. Instead he offered a shrug and said, "It's a committee, and committees need to meet. It's what they do. Besides," he added, suddenly more serious, "we _want_ them to meet. A nice public hearing where they get told all the facts and then throw the case out. Everything in the open and above-board, that's what you want. Now hustle, will ya? We don't want to be late. Mattie hates it when a defendant comes straggling in, especially when she's defending them."

 **00000**

They'd climbed into the Coyote with enough time to spare, especially since McCormick was behind the wheel.

"No tickets, kiddo," Hardcastle reminded him. "You won't just tick off Mattie if we don't show up on schedule. I checked—the disciplinary code has a 'no show' default policy for all hearings."

"Both hands on the wheel and in the ten-two position, Kemosabe." He pulled out onto the PCH, fully intending to be a model of driving probity. He just wanted the morning to be over so he could—knock wood—go back to sweating the upcoming exams.

Being a model driver, he glanced at the rearview mirror, then frowned. A dark sedan, being driven with far less probity, had moved up as if to pass but was now hovering just behind him, so close that the plate wasn't visible. Mark slowed slightly, hoping that was all the encouragement the other driver needed to execute the maneuver before the next curve. No—still sitting behind him, too close for their mutual speed.

Hardcastle was now aware of their shadow, too. He muttered something that Mark didn't quite catch before he felt a solid tap on the Coyote's back end. Mark reflexively hit the gas, zipping forward, though he knew speed wouldn't help much on this winding road.

The sedan surged forward, closing again. He glanced sideward; the glove compartment was open and Hardcastle was rummaging in it for his gun.

"Judge, _no_ ," he pleaded, eyes back on the road but voice urgent, "we're not gonna do a shoot-out on the way to my disciplinary hearing."

Hardcastle already had the weapon out and had been positioning himself for a clear shot. He reluctantly held fire. Mark maneuvered wide on the next curve—a blind one—and then braked sharply, relieved to see no oncoming traffic. Another jolt rocked them as the sedan clipped the Coyote's front driver's quarter, spinning them further left.

The larger, heavier sedan was barely slowed by the impact, and shot past at nearly full-speed. There was no time to watch it depart. The Coyote, no longer under control, slammed into the guardrail before coming to a stop.

They sat, just off the outer side of the road, with only the railing between them and a serious drop. The dust settled around them.

"Lucky," Hardcastle said.

"Luck? _Hah_. That was superior handling."

"Yeah, but the bad guys got away." The judge gestured down the road, looking peeved. "You shoulda let me shoot 'em."

"Uh-uh." Mark shook his head. Then he shot a questioning look at Hardcastle. "Who _were_ those guys, anyhow? You been out riding the range again?"

"I'm not the one they're trying to get thrown out of law school."

McCormick looked grim as he maneuvered the slightly-dented Coyote back onto the road and then floored it.

 **00000**

Despite further superior handling, they were almost late. McCormick screeched into the lot nearest to Dodd Hall, grateful to find a space. He and the judge clambered out, Mark taking the lead.

Mattie was on the front steps of the building, frowning as she checked her watch. She opened the door and gestured them in as they approached.

"They were asking for you a few minutes ago."

Mark glanced at his own watch as they hustled down the hall. He protested "But it's only ten now."

"You want to argue with your judge? Room 107." She pointed to the right as they came to the cross hallway.

Mark took the turn and pulled up short. The space between him and the door at the end of the hall was crowded with students. He had a brief flash of thought— _they must be having a lot of hearings today_. But that wasn't possible. This wasn't a bunch of solemn, strange faces. He _knew_ these people—

The chatter he'd been vaguely conscious of as he'd dashed down the other hall sharply dwindled as faces turned toward him. The group—there must have been twenty of them—stood aside to let him and his defense team pass.

McCormick hesitated for a moment then walked forward, still not certain what it all meant. Then came a quick slap on the back. Somebody— _that's Joe Perello—he's an upperclassman, on the Law Review_ —said, "Go get 'em."

"Yeah, you show 'em," someone else said. Someone patted him on the shoulder, and then the random words of encouragement picked up, back to a general murmur before he'd made it to the door of room 107. He glanced back for a moment, giving them all a nod and a cautious smile before turning to open it.

The conference room was packed—more students. _It's Dead Week, they ought to be home studying_.

But they weren't. Nearly every seat was taken, the rest were standing, two deep in places, against the wall. Mattie pushed him forward gently toward one of the last two empty chairs, up front. He caught sight of Amy London, and that other girl—Audra's friend, Valerie. He did his best not to smile at them in gratitude. This would be a bad time to be suspected of collusion and he knew he was under scrutiny.

At the very front of the room, on a slightly-raised dais, sat Dean Thomas. Alongside him were three other uncomfortable-looking administrators.

"Have a seat, Mr. McCormick," the dean said icily.

He did, feeling awkward under this much attention. Hardcastle gave him a nod, then edged back to the wall, where a couple of students made space for him.

Mattie didn't sit. She introduced herself and was reluctantly given permission to present her client's case. McCormick tried to focus. This was important. But her words kept slipping by him, ungrasped, as he tried to make the present fit with everything as he had believed it to be.

She pointed out that he'd been put under unfair suspicion based on circumstantial evidence; there might have been something in there about the Rights of Man, even a side reference to John Locke. It was charming and witty, and the audience broke into cheers at one point, quickly hushed and threatened with being put out.

And then she asked to call her witnesses.

 **00000**

In McCormick's half-dazed state, the whole presentation seemed to have taken only a few minutes. He was startled to see the clock as the committee dismissed them, intending to confer in private. It was nearly eleven.

The hallway was still crowded, though a few students had wandered off—there was less than seventy-two hours remaining before exams were to begin. Some of his supporters were settling in, sitting along the walls in the corridor, pulling books out of briefcases and backpacks. Obviously they were prepared for the long haul.

Amy London said, half to herself, "Maybe we should've made signs."

"No," Mattie assured her, "this was fine."

 **00000**

Even as the wait stretched out, McCormick stayed remarkably calm.

After the better part of an hour, Hardcastle gave him a considering look and finally said, "You're taking this pretty easy, kiddo."

Against all reason, Mark found himself smiling. "Hey, if they kick me out, it won't be the first time I got the boot. But this," he gestured to his supporters, "is . . . well, it's—"

Just exactly what it was, he never got the chance to explain. Just then, the conference room door opened.

"You can come in, Mr. McCormick," one of the administrators said gravely. He cast a quick look at the rest of the crowd, waiting expectantly, and added, "You can all go in."

Mark saw Mattie cast an anxious glance at the judge, but almost immediately don a confident smile for him as they filed forward. The expressions on the administrators' faces gave nothing away; they were constitutionally solemn. But it was only a moment after everyone had found their places in the room before the man next to Dean Thomas stood and began reading from a piece of paper.

"In the matter of violation of the university's moral code, with reference to the theft and possession of examination materials, this committee finds Mr. McCormick to be not guilty. He is to be reinstated immediately to the student body, with full rights and privileges thereunto."

The room erupted with shouts and applause, along with more slaps on the back from the students nearest at hand. McCormick looked around, shaking the hands that were thrust toward him, feeling more stunned than relieved—that would probably come later. Hardcastle, still standing among the others, was grinning at him as he flashed a thumbs-up.


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

It was later that evening, back at the estate, that Mark noticed the relief had not yet come. The two men sat in the den, each nursing a beer, the remnants of a festive meal scattered on the coffee table. The celebration had been quiet, in keeping with the fact that there were still three not-yet-officially-solved deaths. Even the John Wayne movie on TV was muted and neither man was paying it any attention.

Mark stirred slightly in his chair and reached for his beer glass. "So who killed Professor Hawskworth?" he said. "And why did he want my head on a platter?"

Hardcastle grunted in acknowledgement. "And who sicced the sedan on us?"

"The real problem with always being at the top of the suspect list," McCormick continued, "is that it makes the cops quit looking for the actual bad guys." He looked over at the judge. "You do think they're looking _now_ , don't you?"

Hardcastle nodded quickly. "Sure they are. Frank's known all along it wasn't you, and even Kohler had sense enough not to press official charges." He paused, looking pensively into his own beer.

McCormick could tell that wasn't all the man had wanted to say. "But?" he finally prompted.

"But I don't know if there's much of a trail."

"You really think someone can get away with this kind of conspiracy? Hell, this _much_ conspiracy. I thought you had more faith in the system."

Hardcastle gave his head a shake. "I never said it was perfect. Besides, conspiracies are easy to get away with—as long as you kill everyone involved, which seems to be what they did."

"And eventually, Hawksworth is going to be officially responsible for the first two murders," Mark said, realization sinking in.

"Most likely. I hate to say this, but in the absence of something clear-cut, I don't know how much energy the cops are likely to put into investigating the death of a double murderer."

It was then that McCormick relized how tightly his hand had closed around his glass—knuckles showing white and just beginning to shake. He grabbed it with his other hand and lifted it to his lips, draining it. Finally he spoke again.

"You're saying we might never know the truth. Whoever it was that set me up and caused three people to die—they might get away with it."

Hardcastle cast a sharp glance. "I never said _that_."

"But—"

The retired jurist held up a hand to forestall questions or argument. "Someone wanted you out of the way, kiddo, and I'm betting they still do. It may not be soon—might need to let some dust settle—but I doubt we've seen the last of them, whoever they are."

McCormick finally pinpointed the reason the relief had eluded him. Of course the man was right; it had been foolish of him to think this might actually be over. He mulled it a moment longer and then said, "We're going to have to figure it out on our own, huh?"

There was no denial, just a windy sigh from Hardcastle, who finally said, "Hard to say, but maybe. Wouldn't be the first time."

"You think I'll at least have time to get through finals first?"

Hardcastle flashed a tight smile—the humorless kind that McCormick had recognized long ago as pure determination.

"Probably," he said. "But I wouldn't make too many plans for summer vacation."

The two men sat in silence as the darkness fell.

 _ **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**_


End file.
